


Age of Clarke

by regulatingpressure



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe-Immortality, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:52:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5218682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulatingpressure/pseuds/regulatingpressure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin was born on August 15, 1892. She should have died in 1916, but instead, something amazing happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Age of Clarke

Clarke was born to Abigail and Jake Griffin on August 15, 1892 in Ark, Virginia. Her mother was a midwife, the best in the state, and her father a great engineer. Clarke grew up happy and well cared for, if slightly neglected by her parents. She was happy with her nannies and her books and her friends.

The day she turned 18, Clarke became the most desired bachelorette in all the state. She lived a charmed life in a big house with her rich parents. Men came from all over to ask Clarke to go out. Mostly, she refused, to the chagrin of her mother but the delight of her father.

She remained unmarried and basically unattached a few days before her 24th birthday. She had been on her way to visit her dad at Lander University, where he had recently gotten a job teaching engineering. She and her mother were preparing to make the move to South Carolina soon, but Clarke’s father missed her and wanted her to come down.

The train ride down had been peaceful, if a bit boring. Yet, on this August night, Clarke was sitting in the dining room when a small explosion happened in the kitchen, quickly setting fire to it.

The fire spread quickly, thanks to the heavy curtains and cheap wood. The fire department came as fast as they could, but it happened in the middle of nowhere, North Carolina.

Quite a few people died in the fire, but a nice fireman named Sterling told her that she was in the corner of the train, surrounded by embers, and she really should have died.

Doctors told her parents the same thing Sterling told her. They said it was a miracle she had lived at all. They were puzzled by her injuries, by her minimal burns, and that even her hair was only slightly singed off. Clarke heard them murmur about it as they looked over her arm, but she just thanked her lucky stars and got on with her life.

The following summer, when she was 24, she finally married a man named Wells up in Washington. Many looked down on their relationship, but Clarke didn’t care. She loved him, and he loved her, and that was all that mattered.

Wells was the type of man who was kind to everyone he met, although being black in the 1916, he had to be. Clarke herself was careful to make friends only with those who supported her relationship with Wells, who didn’t look down on them or offer to help her separate from him.

Wells was a successful businessman, owning a few pubs throughout the town, meaning Clarke was left mostly to her own devices. She cooked and cleaned the house, as well as being in a book club with a few ladies from her street. She drew and painted when she could, and Wells often came home with a new paint color or charcoal or a hunk of clay.

“I wish my husband were that romantic,” her friends said, always admiring a new painting or a bouquet of flowers. “You are so lucky, Clarke.”

They sat together as Wells filled out his draft notice for World War I. Clarke sniffled, and Wells rubbed her back. “It will be okay, Clarke,” he promised.

Other women’s husbands were drafted, but Wells failed his physical exam because of a slight limp from a riding accident when he was a kid. He continued to run his bar, opening a few new locations. Clarke continued to paint and cook and go to parties, mostly baby showers.

Clarke and Wells knew they wanted children, but remained unable to get pregnant. They saw multiple doctors, she took hormones, he took miracle pills, but nothing seemed to help. The doctors all said Clarke should be able to get pregnant, so it was assumed Wells was impotent.

He cried for days after the last doctor confirmed what the others had said. Clarke knew he had always wanted kids, knew he would be an excellent father. She comforted him, stroked his back and dried his tears. They carried on with their lives, though there was always a slight disconnect from that day on. Clarke still loved Wells, she did, but he didn’t love her quite the same. Still, he bought her flowers and dresses and paints, and their life continued.

Clarke often offered to babysit other people’s children. She liked the children, but quickly realized she herself didn’t care about having children, she only cared that Wells couldn’t. She was content with her life, with her husband and her paints and her friends.

But behind her back, people whispered. Because as the 1920s became the 1930s, they began to get wrinkles around their eyes and silver hair and a few more pounds. Clarke did not, her skin stayed smooth and her hair stayed blonde. Their husbands stared when she came to borrow a cup of flour, and suddenly Clarke’s friends weren’t so friendly anymore. They turned away from her if she waved while on a walk with Wells and ignored her during church.

Still, she carried on.

Clarke didn’t become suspicious of her age until her 45th birthday party. Before, she thought it was just her genes that kept her skin smooth and her hair blonde, and that she still had a young figure because she never had a child. She put on her dress and did her makeup, all the while staring at her reflection. Where were the lines around her mouth and eyes, or the stray silver hairs? All her friends were beginning to fade a bit, step back to let the younger girls become the beautiful ones, to let their daughters have it. It was what was supposed to happen. So why would Clarke still be in bright colors?

Everyone whispered at her party, about how good she looked and how Wells, having just turned 51, was white-haired and had smile lines proudly around his eyes and mouth. Clarke did her best to ignore the whispers of _trophy wife_ and _whore._ Never had she cheated on her husband, and never would she.

Wells died of a heart attack a few years later, in 1942. He was 56, and Clarke was 49. She sobbed at his funeral, wishing that they had a child so someone would share her anguish. Wells’ father rubbed her back and helped her arrange everything, but then went back to Alabama.

After that, Clarke sold their house. She couldn’t stay on that street, with those gossiping women and staring men. What finally put her over the edge was overhearing the other men talking in the bar. One group talked about doing sexual things to her, which made her uncomfortable. A second group were whispering about her age. One said something about telling his cousin, a scientist, about her and seeing if he could do some tests. She quickly walked to the women’s bathroom of the pub, panic rising slightly.

She looked in the mirror, seeing a woman in her early 20s but feeling like a woman in her 50s. She didn’t know what had happened, but she knew something had happened, and she knew she couldn’t tell anyone about it.

She refused to be anyone’s lab rat.

 

The next few years were a blur. Clarke lived in fear, erasing Clarke Griffin to become Caitlyn Rodgers. She was careful not to make friends or go out much, but she lived comfortably thanks to Wells’ money. His pubs had sold for a lot, and when Thelonious Jaha died, he also left Clarke all his possessions.

She wrote letters to her parents, but refused to come see them. Her mom died in 1950, when she was living in Salt Lake City. A year after that, her dad wrote her that he was sick, and she couldn’t help but go see him.

She walked into his hospital room and almost cried at how much her dad had changed since she’d last seen him. He was balding, and his remaining hair was white. He was 79 at that point, and had lived a long and happy life.

“Clarke,” he said when she walked in, gazing up at her in amazement.

“Daddy,” she replied, running to hug him. She noticed how frail he was, how his skin seemed paper thin. His thumb traced her cheek, barely touching her still-blonde hair.

“So this is why you never visited us,” he whispered. “I have to say, I was angry when you couldn’t make it to your mother’s funeral.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I was so sorry, Daddy. I wanted to come so much, but I knew everyone would ask questions. I was supposed to be nearing sixty, and I look…I look like I’m maybe twenty-nine.”

“I see,” he replied. “What’s your name now, darling?”

“Caitlyn Rodgers,” she replied.

Her dad asked no more questions about her condition, only changed his will so that she could get the money and house without any questions. She claimed to be his granddaughter, but people still whispered, because most knew that Clarke Griffin had married a black man.

Her dad died a week after she got back to Virginia, and she quickly got everything in order. She buried him next to her mother, and put most of their possessions in a storage unit. His last words echoed in her head. _Stay safe, Clarke, and stay free._

 

She met John Murphy in 1952, nine years into her first alias. Caitlyn Rogers was looking to forage new information, namely a new birth certificate, passport, and driver’s license.

“What name do you want on it,” the man asked after taking her picture.

“Um…” Clarke raked her brain. “Carla, please. Carla Elizabeth McDonald.”

“Sure thing,” he began working on it, glancing up to meet her eye. “So, what are you running from?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she replied after a long pause. He chuckled, handing her the new identifications.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll find out one of these days.”

Clarke smiled sadly. “I highly doubt that. Thank you, Mr. Morton.”

 

She didn’t meet Finn Collins until she was Clare Leman.

The year was 1963 and Clarke had just moved to a small town in Texas. She got a job teaching kindergarteners and, thanks to the amount of space between houses, didn’t meet any of her neighbors for a while. It wasn’t until she was browsing the local record store that she met Finn.

“You know, they’re saying that the Beatles are going to get really big,” he said, gesturing to the record in her hand. “You should buy it. It was shipped from London, not yet released in the US. The owner had a hookup.” He winked.

“Is that your sales technique?” She shot back, almost putting the album down. His smile is what stopped her, and she quirked an eyebrow instead. “Does it ever work?”

“Often,” he replied, and just like that she was hooked. “What’s your name?”

She almost said Clarke, but instead says “Clare.”

She knew what she should do, that the decent thing would be to leave Finn alone so that he could marry one of the normal girls in town, someone that he could love and have children with and grow old with, but she simply couldn’t resist the temptation of a human relationship. She laughed at all his stupid jokes and told him about all the funny things her kindergartners said. They held hands at the crappy drive-in and she laughed and danced with him in the store, her dress swishing around her ankles.

She was telling him about Ted, one of her kindergartners with a big crush on her, the first time he kissed her. When she pulled back, she asked him why.

“I was jealous,” he replied without shame. Clarke sighed, putting her forehead against his.

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

After that, they lived happily for a while. They married in the courtroom a few towns over and he bought her a horse as a wedding gift and taught her to ride it. She named it Star.

Finn was drafted into the Vietnam War in 1965, after a year and a half of marriage. Clarke cried and Finn hugged her, whispering hollow assurances into her ear. He went, and she stayed and waited. She imagined her hair turning gray because of worry, but then looked in the mirror. Her hair wasn’t turning gray anytime soon.

She wrote countless letters to Finn, reluctantly sending him pictures on request and trying to keep things light. She loved Finn, but a year into his tour he began to change. Sometimes his letters would be blank, save for her name and sometimes half a sentence, while others would be barely understandable. She wanted him to come home. She had seen the effects of World War I on some of her friend’s husbands (and thanked god Wells had a slight limp because a horse kicked him off its back when he was a child. He wasn’t eligible, and wouldn’t let her read of the War) and she didn’t want Finn to come back changed.

Of course he did. He was honorably discharged after nearly three years in Vietnam. Most of what he did was a mystery to Clarke, but she knew he was discharged because of a wound on his stomach. He came home in December of 1967.

The first few months were the worst. He would wake up in a cold sweat and tell her horrible things. He told her that every person he killed out there, he killed for her. It left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Other things changed, too. He jumped at loud noises, refused to ride their horses with her, and often zoned out while she talked. Sometimes he would go days without eating, lost in thought next to their window. She would sit with him and coax berries and toast into him.

She knew that this was her life when she sold the horses. She had accepted it, but she wouldn’t just leave Finn alone in this state.

But for some reason, the worst part to Clarke was how he was always a little off beat every time they danced. “Love Me Do” was his favorite song, but he just wasn’t quite there.

The best day after he came back was July 20, 1969. They sat on the couch, with her tucked into his side and her head pressed to his shoulder. They watched the moon landing on the news as many times as it was played. Finn watched with awe, and eventually kissed her on the forehead.

“Someday, that will be me, Clare. Up in the stars, up in space.”

She sighed happily, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “I’m sure you’re right, Spacewalker.”

She bought him a telescope the next day, and even though some days he spent more time with it then her, she was happy to see some of his old spark back. One day she came in to hear “Love Me Do” playing on his record player, and him swaying slightly off the beat.

There were surprisingly few questions as Finn got older in their house and she taught kindergarten. She knew she should move on in 1973, but the Vietnam War was still happening and Finn wasn’t all better and he needed her. She was supposed to be 33, but she just seemed to be aging well. It wasn’t a big deal.

The War ended a couple years later, on April 30, 1975, and even though he was still different, Finn was happy again. He loved her and his telescope, they were really all he needed. A few months later, she quietly celebrated her 83rd birthday, but everyone else celebrated her 35th birthday. Finn gave her a beautiful diamond bracelet.

“It was my mother’s,” he said, clasping it to her wrist. “I was waiting for a special occasion to give it to you.”

They moved two years after that, Clarke telling Finn that she just wanted a fresh start. He agreed, so they packed up and moved to a small town on the other side of the state. Clarke worked as a secretary, and Finn continued studying space in a new office with a skylight. She told people she was 25.

They lived there for 15 years, with Clarke “aging gracefully” and Finn barely going out. He rarely questioned her lack of aging, and when he did, it was usually to run his finger down the side of her face and press his forehead against hers and wonder how he landed such a beautiful woman. While her coworkers wished her a happy 35th birthday, Finn wished her a happy 45th.

They moved again soon after that, to Oklahoma this time. Clarke didn’t like it nearly as much, but since she was the one to initiate the move, she couldn’t really complain. Finn wanted a place where all the stars would shine.

Clarke got a job as a hospital receptionist, again going back to age 25. The kid who made her new IDs gave her a strange look when she told him to just push her birth year forward 10 years, but didn’t comment. 1995 was a good year for her, but things got bad in January 1996.

Finn had a routine. Every morning, he would get up at 7:00, usually while she was doing her makeup, and take a shower. Then, he would come downstairs, have coffee and toast, and do the crosswords while she went to work. After that, he would read or watch _I Love Lucy_ or study the constellations.

One day, after coming home from work, she found his crossword puzzle was filled with nonsense words. Something dawned on her, and she rushed to ask Finn questions.

What year were we married? What’s your middle name? What was your mother’s name? What state do we live in? Who is the president? What year is it?

For every question, Finn would furrow his brows and think very hard. Still, he answered nearly every question wrong. She held his head and sobbed, knowing what it was.

The next day, a doctor confirmed her suspicions. Alzheimer’s disease, technically early onset because Finn was 63, but still normal.

He regressed quickly after that. She really couldn’t be surprised that this was happening, she’d known for 33 years that this would happen. She knew going in that Finn would get gray hair and she would not, that he would get wrinkles and his hearing would get worse and he would _die._ She just didn’t think it would hurt so much.

The end was okay. She took care of him at home, and sometimes he would say the things he used to say before he went to Vietnam. Some days were like his first back, with the horrible stories and him saying he did it for her. But he told her he loved her hourly, saying “Have I told you I love you today?” and even though he could barely hear it, he finally danced in tune with Love Me Do.

On one of his last days, they watched the moon landing. She was curled into his side, her head craned to look at him. He watched it like he had never seen it before, which in his mind, he hadn’t.

“Clare,” he said gruffly, “Someday that will be me. Up in space, in the stars.”

She thought about all the things she could say. My name is Clarke, she wanted to say. Instead, she kissed his cheek. “I’m sure you’re right, Spacewalker.”

 

She painted a constellation on the underside of his coffin, so that he could be among the stars. He was buried in a graveyard in Oklahoma.

_Finn Collins Veteran, Husband, Spacewalker Forever Remembered_

and on the back, she carved _Thanks for the life. Love, Clar(k)e_ because it wasn’t like anyone would ever see it anyways.

She moved out of Oklahoma very fast after Finn. She changed her name to Celeste Argo, in his honor.

Celeste got a degree in physics and astronomy.

After Celeste, Cristina Henley got a degree in medicine.

Then Chelsea Jaha got a degree in multiple languages, including French, Spanish, American Sign Language, and Mandarin.

She traveled under a few names, never staying in one place long enough for anyone to suspect. She didn’t have to work because the investments she’d made with Finn were paying off handsomely, plus she still had her money from her parents and Wells.

She still ran. Her father’s words echoed constantly in her head, a dull _stay happy, stay free_ in tune to her heartbeat.

 

She met Lexa when she was Chey Williams in 2020, living in New York, this time beginning as 18. It was a bit of a stretch, but a little makeup did wonders. It was also the second time she met John Murphy.

She had set up the new identity papers with a Jon Murray, and she had long forgotten about the John Morton that had made her Carla McDonald papers. It was lifetimes ago. She walked into the apartment, rifling through her purse for the cash, before looking up and freezing. There stood the boy from 1952, not looking any different save for the new look of a dirty white tee and jeans instead of a suit.

He grinned at her. “Your papers are almost done, Miss…is it McDonald? Williams? Help me out here.”

“M-Morton,” she stuttered before frowning. “Murray? Whatever, John? How are you-is it the same as-?”

“Yup,” he replied, popping the P. “But really, Miss, what is your name?”

She swallowed, licking her suddenly dry lips. “My name is Clarke,” she said smiling a bit. “My name is Clarke Griffin. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

He shook her hand. “The name’s John Murphy, but most of my friends used to call me Murphy. You know, back when I had friends. It’s nice to meet you, Clarke.”

They talk for a long time. He was born in 1752, and he thought the aging stopped when he nearly drowned in the Mississippi River when he was 25. Clarke told him about the train and the fire, and he chuckled, shaking his head.

“Well, that doesn’t really explain much.”

“But it’s nice to share the burden.” They smiled at each other slightly. Murphy gave her the papers and his phone number, and that was that.

She first met Lexa at an LGBTQ rally downtown.

Clarke had felt things for women when she was first 16, but denied the feelings until the early 2000s. That’s when she realized and accepted that she was bisexual, and began quietly fighting for the rights of the LGBTQ community.

This particular rally was for education about the LGBTQ community. They wanted those last conservative states to agree to tell kids that there were other options than “You are a boy who must marry a girl” or “You are a girl who must marry a boy”.

She liked Lexa immediately. Lexa was wary of her immediately. She wasn’t able to coax a phone number out of the pretty girl.

She met Lexa again in her second semester in New York University. She was studying art this time, while Lexa was studying political sciences. They met in drawing 101, where Clarke was the TA and Lexa was the terrible artist.

Clarke couldn’t really describe her feelings for Lexa. She had been with people, both boys and girls, since Finn, but had never liked someone enough to consider a serious, long term relationship. But suddenly, here was this girl, this smart, beautiful, grumpy girl with the prettiest green eyes Clarke had ever seen, and Clarke was stuck.

She began teaching Lexa to draw (or at least trying to). Slowly, what were supposed to be tutoring sessions became talking over coffee or telling stories on a park bench. Even slower, Lexa opened up to her. They were best friends before they finally kissed.

It happened in Clarke’s dorm room four weeks before summer. Their kisses were sweet, they laughed into each other’s mouths and their teeth gently clinked together, yet Clarke felt they fit together seamlessly. As they drew back, Clarke had a fleeting image of herself saying she wasn’t ready for a relationship, of saving Lexa what could be a world of hurt.

But she refused to leave Lexa more broken than she had found her. She didn’t walk away.

They both finished college with Suma Cum Lade in their majors, and even though Clarke liked to avoid taking pictures, she allowed Lexa’s Uncle Gustus to snap a photo of them in their graduation gowns. She was supposedly 21 at this point, graduating in the class of 2024.

She and Lexa moved into a crappy flat together, and they were happy. She focused on art, getting a job as a tattoo artist in a shop a few miles away. Lexa got an internship with the old city planner, with the expectation she would get his job when he retired.

Lucky for her, Lexa was about as into having a lot of friends and going to clubs as Clarke was. Whenever they were both home, they preferred to drink beers and watch reruns of old TV shows like The Office and Friends. They would bicker over the TV remote, and that usually led to sex on their street-corner couch. For the first time in a long time, Clarke was happy again.

It was July of 2026 when Clarke came home to find Lexa sitting on their street-corner couch with a number of birth certificates, driver’s licenses, and passports, all neatly lined up on the coffee table. Clarke’s only photo album sat on her knees while she frowned down at it.

“Chey,” Lexa said when she came in. She looked up from the photo album, her eyes shining. “I was looking for your passport, to see if it was valid. My grandmother offered me a trip to congratulate my promotion at work, and I thought I might surprise you with a trip to Paris. You said it was your absolute favorite place. Didn’t you say that?”

Clarke’s throat was dry. “Yes.”

“I found your passport. Chey Abigail Williams. The thing is, I found a few other passports as well. I’ve got a Chelsea Jaha, a Cristina Henley, a Celeste Argo, a few for Clare Collins, and a few more. The interesting thing is they all have different birth years, averaging about ten years apart. Chey, what’s going on?”

Clarke stood still for a moment before walking slowly over to Lexa. She sat gingerly next to her on the couch, taking the photo album from her lap and flipping it back to the beginning. She pointed to a grainy black and white photograph of a baby with shaking fingers, then looked sharply at Lexa.

“Before I tell you the truth. Will you promise me something, Lexa? Promise you’ll let me finish. That you won’t run away before I’ve told you the entire story.” Lexa nodded slowly.

“Promise.”

Clarke took a deep breath. “Well, that baby is me. I wasn’t born in 2002 like I told you before, Lexa, and my name isn’t Chey Williams. My real name is Clarke Griffin, and I was born on August 15, 1892.”

Clarke told Lexa everything, and Lexa sat with a blank face through most of the story. Clarke pointed to pictures of herself and Wells through the years, of the few pictures of herself and Finn. She talked about her time in Europe and Asia and South America, and about the train and the fire. She talked until she came to the year 2020, the year she met Lexa. She lightly traced the picture of the two of them at graduation, waiting for Lexa to say something. She had remained silent the entire time.

“You’re one hundred thirty four years old.” Lexa said finally.

“Almost,” Clarke replied. “I’ll turn one thirty four in August.”

“But you look twenty-three,” Lexa said.

“Yes, I was nearly twenty-four when it happened.”

“Was anything else a lie?” Lexa’s eyes flitted around the room, looking anywhere but at Clarke. “Other than the age and name, I mean.”

“No,” Clarke’s fingers reached out and she guided Lexa’s gaze back to hers. “Lexa, I am so in love with you. All the stories I told you were real, some of the details were just…tweaked a bit to fit a smaller time frame. I understand if you can’t do this anymore, but you have to know how much I wanted to tell you.”

Lexa surged forward and kissed her gently, timidly. Lexa pulled back after a moment and closed her eyes, pressing her forehead to Clarke’s.

“My name is Lexa Heda Woods and I am in love with you.”

Clarke giggled a bit, also closing her eyes. “My name is Clarke Elizabeth Griffin and I’m in love with you, too.”

 

They went around the world together. Clarke murmured to Lexa about old memories she had of these places, of people she met before. Although publicly she kept the name Chey, Lexa would whisper her real name in moments where no one cared enough to listen. Eventually, they settled in London. Lexa began to teach government at a local high school while Clarke painted for a gallery downtown, signing her paintings only C.E. and then a scribble that looked something like a W, but she and Lexa knew.

The best thing about Lexa was that Lexa was fascinated by her stories. She would sit for hours while Clarke told her about the past. She talked about the World Wars, and the women’s right acts, the rise of the gay community, and the fall of the Berlin Wall. She talked about the great depression and Vietnam. Sometimes she would mention Finn or even Wells, but Lexa’s smile always faded a bit when she talked about them, so she tried to avoid the subject.

Of course she had shared her life story with Murphy, but this was different. Lexa hadn’t been there for any of these events, and she sat listening carefully, interjecting questions occasionally. Every once in a while, Lexa would share a story of her own, about coming out to her parents and promptly being kicked out, then her Uncle Gustus taking her in. Later, she told Clarke she didn’t like talking about her life when Clarke’s was so much more interesting. Clarke had laughed, kissing her on the lips and telling her that her life was fascinating, because it made her into the Lexa she saw today.

They lived happily like that, for a while. Neither wanted children, but they adopted a couple Labs, one yellow and one chocolate. Lexa loved her job, loved teaching and London. They spent most weekends together, visiting restaurants and museums or walking through the woods of their large property. They never talked about it, really. Sometimes Lexa would trace Clarke’s face and sigh when she thought the other girl was asleep. Clarke knew that her same fear lurked within Lexa. That they both knew that someday, Lexa would grow old and die and Clarke would not.

Clarke desperately researched for a cure. Lexa was turning 26 this year, and Clarke wanted to grow old with her. She wanted the silver hair and the laugh lines, and for Lexa to tell her pouting, aging face that she’s just as beautiful as she was when they first kissed, but for it to be a lie. The desire was much stronger than with Finn, but it was possible that was because the war changed Finn, but her Lexa changed with her.

On Lexa’s 26th birthday, they watched as Reaper and Skye, their dogs, played in their large yard. Lexa gently rocked the porch swing, and Clarke arranged herself so her head was in her girlfriend’s lap.

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” Lexa asked, combing her fingers through Clarke’s hair. Clarke opened her eyes to find Lexa’s eyes gazing down at her softly.

“We can,” Clarke replied slowly.

“I just want to know…how this works.” Lexa blinked back a few tears. “I mean, how it works when I’m getting older every year while you stay twenty-three. It’s okay now, but what are we supposed to do ten years from now? Or twenty? _Fifty?”_

Clarke sat up, pushing Lexa’s unruly hair behind her ears. “We can do whatever you want to do, darling. We can move and I’ll go back to being twenty-three in a few years, and then I can stay in the house while you go out. We can go someplace isolated, where no one will be there to care. We can…we can do anything you want.”

“I want…I want to stay with you or I want you to come with me.”

“Lexa…”

“I know.” Lexa went back to watching the dogs in the yard, and Clarke resumed her place on Lexa’s lap. _I want to go with you, too._

 

_“Clarke, if I had any sort of remedy, I’d have already used it on myself.”_

Clarke pulled at her hair in frustration. “I know, Murphy. I just want to age so much. _So much.”_

_“You fell in love, didn’t you? God, Clarke, that is such a sucker move. I should know. What’s his name?”_

_“Her_ name is Lexa.”

“ _Mine was called Emori, and she was the prettiest girl in Arizona. I fell hard and fast, but I couldn’t stay. She’s thirty-six now, just started dating another man.”_

“You keep tabs on her?”

_“Yeah, of course I do. Someday, you’ll keep tabs on this one. Anyways, I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”_

Clarke sighed. “We’re all sorry, Murphy. I’ll talk to you whenever.”

_“Whenever.”_ He confirmed.

 

They didn’t talk about it again after that. They continued with their life, still happy, but knowing their happiness had an expiration date. Lexa aged gracefully, just like Clarke thought she would, and Clarke aged not at all. People asked her what her secret was, and she cited face creams and makeup. Still, they talked, and it was just like the 1930s.

They moved in 2036, when Chey was turning 34, going to live in a flat in Paris. Lexa got a job as the manager of a corporate office and Clarke painted. She was 23 again, having had Murphy send her the correct paperwork.

For a few years, they made the most of Paris. They strolled through the streets with Skye and Reaper, drank coffee from a different shop every weekend morning, cooked with jazz music floating through the kitchen, and drank wine on their balcony, looking to see the Eiffel Tower.

It started to go bad just after Lexa’s 38th birthday. Skye had died of kidney failure a couple years before, but Reaper had continued on. His brown muzzle had become silver, and he became slower and slower. He was diagnosed with bone cancer, and only lasted a couple weeks after that. Lexa and Clarke brought him to the vet together, tears streaming down their faces.

When the vet left so they could say their goodbyes, Lexa stood back for a moment, watching as Clarke whispered to Reaper and kissed his head before hugging him for the last time. Lexa said her goodbyes, and the vet came in.

“At least now he’ll be with Skye again,” Clarke said, stroking his fur. His tail thumped once, and Clarke nodded. “Yeah. You wanna see Skye again, Reaper?”

They went home alone, and sat curled on the couch for a while. Neither said anything, but every once in a while Lexa would kiss Clarke’s forehead and run her fingers through her hair.

They celebrated Lexa’s 38th birthday in the Eiffel Tower, and like with Finn and the moon landing, it was their last good day.

For the next few weeks after that, Lexa would come home, kiss her on the cheek, and go out to their balcony. There, she would sit silently. Dinner was filled with meaningless chatter, and Lexa stopped meeting her eyes.

Clarke knew what came next. She’d known it would happen eventually when they first moved to Paris. They had a wall in their bedroom that was all mirror, and Clarke had quickly realized that Lexa wouldn’t look in that mirror if Clarke was standing in front of it. Lexa was now a full 14 years older than her, though she didn’t look more than nine or ten years older, it was still enough.

Clarke found her suitcases packed on an unusually chilly May afternoon. She looked at them for a good few minutes, sitting on their bed, before getting up and slipping a small box into one. She took a deep breath, going out to their living room.

Lexa was standing on their balcony with her back to Clarke, a glass of wine in her hands. The city was just beginning to light up. Clarke snapped a picture, and the flash caused Lexa to turn around.

“Sorry,” Clarke said when Lexa raised her eyebrow in question. “I just wanted to remember this. Remember you.”

Lexa walked over, setting her glass down on the coffee table. She hugged Clarke tightly, allowing the other girl to sob while silent tears rolled down her own face.

“So you found the suitcases.” Clarke nodded against her shoulder. “You have to know that I love you so much, Clarke, but I feel like a ticking time bomb. I know that someday, I’m going to look like your mom, then your grandmother, and I know you can handle that but I just can’t.” Lexa let out a broken sob, running her fingers gently through Clarke’s hair.

“I understand,” Clarke allowed herself three more seconds with her head on Lexa’s shoulder before pulling back. “I love you, Lexa. Thank you for the life.”

 

She spent a few more months in Paris, but without Lexa, the city had lost its appeal. She drowned her sorrows in expensive wine and cheap vodka. The day her phone rang, she was tempted to think it might be Lexa, but knew better.

“Hello?” she said dully when she picked up.

_“Hello, Clarke,”_ Murphy replied. _“You sound chipper today.”_

She ignored the sarcasm. “You were right, Murphy. Love is for suckers.”

_“So it is. Well, it’s been close enough to ten years. Who are we this time?”_

She thought for a moment, looking around her lonely French flat. “You know what, I think I’ll come back to the States for a while. Where are you right now?”

_“Living in Tucson. I think you’d like it here.”_

“I’ll be there in a few weeks. Just let me get everything in order down here.”

 

She didn’t sell her flat. Half of it was in Lexa’s name, anyways. She just signed the entirety of it to Lexa, half hoping the other girl wouldn’t sell it and half hoping she would. She packed up all her belongings quickly, but not before slipping that last photo of Lexa into her album. Now, that page had their graduation, a photo of Skye and Reaper as puppies, and the one of Lexa on their balcony.

Clarke held her album and sobbed, wishing again that she could have joined Lexa. But the mirror still showed a girl on the verge of 24, heartbroken in Paris. For just a moment, she felt like a cliché.

 

She met Murphy in Tucson in January of 2041. He asked her what her name was this time.

“Um…” Clarke thought for a while. “Cora. Cora Alexei.”

Her life as Cora Alexei was mostly boring and sad. She and Murphy drank a lot, both getting jobs as bartenders and sometimes stealing the booze. Times were changing. Technology was kicking it up. The government had completely computerized all records from 1500. They lived in fear that somehow, someone would find the original Clarke Griffin or John Murphy paperwork and connect it back to them.

They didn’t really have any friends besides each other, and she supposed his tolerance of her pity party was the reason she agreed to go to Emori’s wedding.

“Why do you want to do this again?” She asked as she carefully pinned her hair up. The year was 2042, and finally the hairstyles of the early 20th century were back. Other girls were jealous of how easily she was able to do it, and how good it looked every time. Clarke thought often of Wells, and how he would sometimes help. Or at least try to.

“Because I need to,” Murphy came into her room, holding a bowtie pathetically. “Will you help me?”

Clarke rolled her eyes, putting a bit of hairspray on her carefully arranged hair. “Alive nearly two hundred and ninety years and still unable to do a bowtie. Honestly, John Murphy.” She made quick work of the bowtie.

“I’ve got better things to do,” he mumbled. He straightened his already straight galaxy design bowtie and ran his fingers through his hair. “Let’s go, Clarke. My heart was too fixed, anyways. And remember, my name is John McCarthy in this life. You always forget.”

“So I do,” she nodded. “But to be fair, you don’t always remember to call me Cora.”

 

Emori’s wedding was beautiful. She looked lovely in her gauzy white dress, and the groom nearly teared up when he saw her. So did Murphy.

“Nearly fifty,” he whispered to Clarke. “And she’s still just as pretty as she was when she was eighteen.”

The longing look in Murphy’s eyes was one that was familiar to Clarke, and she didn’t dare look at him as Emori said I do and kissed her new husband.

She also didn’t point out the small tattoo on Emori’s ankle when her dress rode up as she walked down the receiving line.

_1752,_ with a small heart next to it. Murphy’s birth year.

For the next few weeks, she and Murphy did nothing except try to drink themselves into oblivion. “How else are we supposed to experience oblivion?” Murphy said with a wry smirk.

Several times, she was tempted to tell him about the little tattoo, but knew it was for the better he didn’t know. She kept her mouth shut and poured herself another vodka cranberry.

 

She met Monty Green and Jasper Jordan in her next life. She and Murphy separated, deciding that it was simply too dangerous to remain together, as nice as it was to be in each other’s company. She ended up working in a hospital in San Diego, while Murphy headed up to Maine to run a bike shop.

Clarke chose Cali Johnson for this life. She enjoyed her work in the hospital, even though her training from the early 2000s wasn’t always relevant. It didn’t matter. She just learned from the other doctors and tried to resist the urge to look up Lexa Woods online.

In the year 2052, an inventor by the name of Horton Weebler came out with the first identification chips that could be implanted in one’s skin. The chips could track bank points (which had replaced money in 2049. Clarke thought it was stupid, but understood why the government wanted to get off a system of physical currency. It made money complicated for illegal things, but then again, she was very much an illegal thing) as well as personal identification. People went gaga for them, but Clarke and Murphy silently panicked. There were rumors about the implants. Some said that they automatically turned off once you died, that the government could track you, that there was a death serum in them. Clarke’s coworkers questioned why she didn’t get one, but she brushed them off.

Unfortunately, 6 months after they became popular, many people came into the hospital with strange symptoms. They bled out of their eyes and ears and noses, had high fevers, and chills. At first, doctors were puzzled, but then realized exactly what the cause was.

People came in for weeks after that, either to get their implant removed or to be treated with what was known as Weeble Disease. Horton Weeble, a very rich man for a few months, was arrested.

She met Monty Green and Jasper Jordan for a different reason, though.

“Doctor Johnson, we need some stiches in room nine,” one of her nurses told her, handing her a clipscreen (a very useful invention from 2045) with the information pulled up. “Kid says he fell, but…”

“I understand.” Clarke scanned the clipscreen, thanking the nurse. She walked into the room and shut the door shut gently behind her. “Hello, Mr. Jordan,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “I’m Dr. Johnson. Would you like to tell me what happened to your face?”

The kid glanced at the boy next to him, who seemed to be holding back a smile. “Um, I fell. Yep. Fell right down. Onto the gravel, I did.”

Clarke turned to the other kid, eyebrow raised. “He was playing with a vintage throwing star and got distracted when our pretty neighbor walked by.”

Clarke chuckled and Jordan blushed. “I see. Well, maybe your scar will impress her. Let me put the numbing cream on it and I’ll stitch you up.”

As she did the 19 stitches for Jasper, Monty chatted to her about a few things. She rather liked these patients.

She ran into them again at the bar across from her crappy apartment. “Dr. Johnson,” Monty said happily from behind the bar. “What can I get you today?”

“Monty?” She said. “It’s great to see you! Um, can you do a jack and coke? And you can call me Cali.”

“You don’t want to vapor?” Monty asked. “Going old school? Well, I’ll see what I can do.”

After that, Monty and Jasper just kind of wormed their way into her life. She introduced them to some of the charms of the old world. (“Why would you want to drink vodka like that?! God, I can still feel it burning.” “That’s the fun part, Jasper.”) They introduced her to some of the new world. (“I feel so…light. And hungry.” “That’s normal.”) They were the best friends she’d ever had.

She begun spending all her free time with Monty and Jasper, and, later, Harper. They all went to amusement parks and bars and clubs. She went to the animal shelter to help them pick out a kitten, and somehow ended up taking home a dog. Her Corgi wasn’t exactly pocket-sized, but Lila still went everywhere with her. And Einstein, Jasper and Monty’s cat, went everywhere, too.

For those ten years with Monty and Jasper, she was the happiest she’s been for a while. She didn’t realize how much she liked having a group of platonic friends, because she’d never really had any before.

Monty met Miller at the police station when he and Clarke were bailing Jasper out of jail for public intoxication charges. Cali was supposedly 28 at that point, and people were just starting to get suspicious. Clarke knew she would have to leave soon, but didn’t let the expiration date hang over her head the same way it had with Lexa.

Maybe it was because Monty and Jasper weren’t aware of it, or maybe she had just matured, but Clarke didn’t feel any worry about her inevitable departure.

She continued to work in the hospital and hang out with her friends. Sometimes, Harper would bug her about getting a boyfriend or a girlfriend, but she was easy enough to brush off. Clarke was happy to see Monty and Miller so happy, and became quite close with Miller.

When Cali was 29, she helped set Jasper up with one of the nurses in the hospital, named Maya. They all went to Vegas together 6 months later, Monty, Miller, Harper, Maya, Jasper, and herself, and sober Clarke grinned as drunken Jasper and Maya got married in a chapel there. She didn’t protest as a photo was snapped of the happy couple, with her in the background. They didn’t annul the wedding.

She was a groomswoman at Monty and Miller’s wedding a year after Vegas. She was planning to leave about a month later, and already had Murphy working on a new identity.

She danced at their wedding reception, not a care in the world. Maya excitedly pressed Clarke’s hand to her swollen belly, and Clarke laughed with delight at the solid kicks she felt.

“That’s your Aunt Cali,” Maya told her belly.

Clarke desperately wanted to just tell her friends she was moving, but knew that if she did that, there would be too many questions later on. Why wouldn’t she visit? Or send photos? She wanted her friends to remember her as she was, so she faked her own death in a car accident.

She attended her own funeral, as morbid as it sounded. It was surprisingly full, with all her friends and coworkers and a few of her neighbors. She thought of leaving Lila behind, but couldn’t bear to. She said the dog was in the car with her.

Maya cried and held her baby boy in her lap. Clarke had met him, held him once, before it happened. Jasper and Monty simultaneously cried and laughed, talking about all the good times they had. Miller held Monty silently, not crying, but not looking okay, either. Clarke left San Diego with a heavy heart and much reluctance, but also feeling light with all the memories of her friends. She went to Seattle this time.

 

The year was 2060, and this time she was Cade Jacobs, an artist in Seattle. She worked at a tattoo shop, and smiled at the thought of her and Lexa and the early days. Though she had resisted for many years, when she got home on what would have been their 39th anniversary, May 19th, Lexa Woods was typed into the Google search bar, and Clarke finally saw why Murphy might have kept tabs on Emori.

Lexa Woods wasn’t her name anymore. Her name was now Lexa Reese-Woods, and she was married to a beautiful woman named Costia. It was bittersweet, scrolling through pictures of Lexa’s life. Lexa was 58 now, and her hair had silver highlights. Costia was a few years older than Lexa, Clarke noted with a bit of bitterness, and had silver highlights to match. Lexa had aged beautifully.

There were photos from her youth and photos from her 40th birthday on, but her time with Clarke was uncatalogued. Clarke wanted to think it was because there were just barely any photos, but she knew better. There could be thousands of photos, and she would still be absent.

But Lexa looked happy. She and Costia had grandkids, apparently from Costia’s first marriage, and were living out their old age in a quiet suburb in Georgia. Both were retired, but volunteered around the community and had many friends.

Clarke through about what her and Lexa’s future might have held, and couldn’t be mad at Lexa for leaving. Young Lexa wanted adventure, wanted to live in Europe and learn about history and drink expensive wine while looking at the Eiffel Tower. As she got older, Lexa needed stability. Needed a love that wasn’t ticking in the same way she and Clarke did. Sure, Lexa and Costia had an expiration date, but their expiration date was known, and it matched.

Clarke looked at Lexa’s face for a long time, until Lila barked, wanting a walk. Clarke closed the tab and shut her computer, grabbing the dog’s leash and taking her out.

She didn’t look up Lexa’s name again.

 

Though she didn’t regret being friends with Monty and Jasper and Harper and Maya and Miller, she couldn’t bring herself to find new friends in Seattle. She just worked at the tattoo shop for a while before beginning to manage an art gallery. World tensions were beginning to run high by 2062, and she thought of the past World Wars and of Vietnam and of Finn. On their 100th anniversary, she got out her old photo album and looked over it.

She had a few pictures of herself and Wells. One of their wedding, a couple of them in front of their new house, and one taken a few weeks before Wells’ heart attack. For Finn, she had his dog tags from Vietnam, a couple of his coherent letters neatly folded and placed in the album, and two photos, one of their wedding and one of Finn before the war, grinning from on top of Star, her horse. She thought of the bracelet, tucked away in her jewelry box, along with both her wedding rings, and the C necklace Monty had made her for her 26th birthday.

For Lexa she had only the three pictures, of graduation, the dogs, and the balcony. She supposed she could take one of the photos of Lexa from online, but didn’t. For her friends, she had a few more pictures. There was a picture of Monty and Jasper with their kitten, Einstein, and the one of Jasper and Maya’s wedding with her in the background. One of her and Harper and Maya at Maya’s baby shower, and one of Monty and Miller on their wedding day. The last photo was from before Vegas, right after Maya and Jasper had started dating. All six of them in Clarke’s apartment, just smiling. It made Clarke smile just looking at it.

But she put the album away and continued to survive, keeping a close eye on the news. World tensions faded for the time being, and she discussed with Murphy, Jonathan McKinley now, whether or not they could die.

_“I don’t suppose there’s any way to find out at this point.”_ He said. _“But we should probably think of some way to contact each other so the other knows if you’ve died.”_

“Good idea, John.”

 

She began to worry about Lexa in 2062, because it was Lexa’s 60th birthday and it occurred to her that maybe her girlfriend would die and she wouldn’t know. She hadn’t been to a funeral since Finn, and she got to spend Finn’s last few days with him.

Lila died in 2064, when she was only 11 years old. She was attacked by a large stray dog while they were at a park. Clarke screamed and hit the other dog with her umbrella, but it was too late. Lila died in pain.

Clarke cried much harder for her little Corgi than she thought she might. She wondered how Monty and Jasper were doing that evening, and wished she were young Cali Johnson, and that she could go get drunk and smoke pot, and pig out on junk food with them. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any friends that would understand, so she got drunk alone, nauseous, depressed, bitter, and cursed.

That summer she went alone to Virginia and Oklahoma. She planted flowers over her parents’ dirty, neglected graves and placed an American flag on Finn’s. She resisted the urge to look up Lexa, just to check up on her.

 

She was near the end of being Cade, 2069, when she and Murphy attended Emori’s funeral. Luckily, it was full of people, meaning there were few questions. Murphy said they were old family friends of Emori’s to anyone who cared enough to ask.

It was the first time she’d ever really seen Murphy cry. She knew him well enough to know that he didn’t want her sympathy, he just wanted to know someone had felt the same kind of pain before.

She thought again of Emori’s tattoo, but didn’t mention it.

 

Next, she was Camille Winters. She went to Yale this time, majoring in psychology. She steadfastly resisted the urge to look up Lexa, and sometimes even Monty and Jasper.

It was December of 2079 when Murphy called her.

“Hey, Jackass,” she answered affectionately. She was in a good mood. It was even snowing out, and she had finished her last final of the year a couple hours before. She thought she might even be making a friend, as the girl had sat at her table in the coffee shop. “What’s up?”

_“Clarke…”_

“Murphy, what’s wrong?” Clarke asked

_“It’s your girl.”_

Clarke dropped everything and went to Georgia. Looking back, she thought maybe she should have gone in with a plan. But it didn’t matter, because Lexa was dying and she’d be damned if she missed it like Murphy did. She had a lot of regrets, but Lexa Woods would never be one of them.

She sprinted into the hospital, skidding to a stop at the nurse’s station. “I’m looking for Lexa Woods, or um, Lexa Woods-Reese, or Reese-Woods-“

“How do you know Lexa?” she heard someone ask from behind her. She turned to see a vaguely familiar older woman standing behind her. _Costia._

“Oh, she was just…a friend of my mother’s. I never met her, but my grandmother, Cl- _Chey_ Williams spoke very highly of her. I just wanted to see her.”

“Oh, _oh_ of course,” Costia looked exhausted. “Sure, I’m glad there will be someone in there with her. I was just going to run to the cafeteria for some lunch, or dinner, I guess.”

“Take your time,” Clarke replied. “By the way, I’m Camille Winters.”

“Costia Reese-Woods,” Costia shook her hand. “Lexa is in room three-oh-two. Just tell anyone who asks that Costia sent you.”

 

Clarke paused for a long time outside Lexa’s hospital room. Finally, she pressed her palm to the white door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.

Lexa still looked like Lexa. Whispers of her 18 year old self still shone through her aging face. She still had her high cheek bones and thick hair. Clarke walked slowly into the room, drinking in her beautiful girl. Lexa slept peacefully, an I.V. in her arm and wearing stylish linen pants and a ratty old sweatshirt. Looking closely, Clarke found that it was a sweatshirt from their university, one of Clarke’s. She smiled, thinking of all the mornings in London she had found Lexa sitting in that sweatshirt and long socks with a mug of coffee in her hands. She had forgotten about it, hadn’t realized Lexa took it along.

She noticed the mirror lining the wall opposite from Lexa’s bed and thought about the mirror that was in their bedroom in Paris. She quickly walked over and closed the heavy blue curtain, blocking their reflections.

She sat gingerly in the chair next to Lexa’s bed, resisting the urge to take her hand. Instead, she looked at the photos on the woman’s bedside table.

She had an electric picture frame, with pictures of Lexa, Costia, and people who were probably kids and grandkids and friends fading in and out.

She looked back at Lexa when the sheets rustled slightly. Lexa’s eyes were still closed, but her lips held a slight smile. “Costia, I thought the nurses made you go get dinner. You can’t just sit here and wait for me to-,” Lexa’s words stopped abruptly when her eyes opened to find the ever so familiar blue ones. “Clarke.”

“Hi, Lexa,” Clarke said, reaching up to brush a bit of soft, white hair from Lexa’s face. “You look beautiful.”

“How-what…” Lexa closed her eyes and took a deep breath, struggling to sit up. Clarke gently helped her. “How did you know I was sick? I didn’t think you would keep tabs on me after what I did.”

“I didn’t,” Clarke said. “It was too painful. I’m happy you were happy all these years, but I knew if I kept tabs I wouldn’t be able to resist seeing you. An old friend of mine called me. He knew that…”

“Is he…like you?” Lexa asked. Clarke nodded and quickly explained Murphy’s situation. Lexa nodded in understanding, and then they fell into silence. Clarke placed her hand next to Lexa’s and let Lexa take her hand.

They stayed like that, silent, fingers knitted together for another ten minutes until Costia came back with three coffees in her hands. “Hello,” she said, leaning down to kiss Lexa on the cheek. Lexa slipped her hand out of Clarke’s and Clarke tried not to feel the emptiness that came with it.

Costia handed Lexa one coffee before turning to Clarke. “I didn’t know how you took your coffee, but I remember once Lexa mentioned your grandmother took it like this. I hope this is okay.”

Clarke took a sip, finding that it was a cappuccino. She smiled a bit. She had generally avoided the drink after Lexa had left, but she hadn’t realized how much she had missed it. “No, Costia. Thank you. It’s perfect.”

“How do you remember that Chey liked cappuccinos?” Lexa asked. “I told you that once, like, forty years ago.”

Costia shrugged. “I have a good memory.”

 

That night, Lexa convinced Costia to go home and sleep in a real bed. “The kids are worried about you,” she had whispered. “And I know your back has been bothering you. Please, Costia, _I’m_ worried about you.”

Finally, Costia agreed on the condition that Clarke stayed with Lexa that night. “Do you mind, Camille?” Costia asked her. “I just don’t want to leave her here alone.”

“Of course not,” Clarke answered.

That night, Lexa caught her up on her life. Clarke would have thought all her happy memories would be like blows to her heart, but she found that she was happy that Lexa was happy. Costia had given Lexa something that she couldn’t give her, and for that, Clarke was forever grateful.

Lexa had had a life with Costia. She had kids and grandkids and friends. She had a partner who aged with her, and who obviously loved her a lot.

Clarke told Lexa about her adventures of the past thirty-nine years. Cora, Cali, Cade, and recently Camille. Lexa eagerly asked questions about her experiences, and her friends, and her take on the recent technology. Every now and again, Lexa would look at the curtain covering the mirror in her room. Finally, Clarke sighed.

“Do you want to open it, Lexa?”

Lexa nodded slowly. “I think so,”

“But you always hated the mirror in Paris,” Clarke replied. “Why do you want to look at us now?”

“Because you’re beautiful, and I want to remember what it was like when we were young. Please, Clarke,”

Clarke obligated, and they stood in front of the mirror for a while, Lexa’s arm around Clarke and Clarke’s head on Lexa’s shoulder. Just like they used to.

Clarke hoped Lexa saw them as she saw them – _Clarke & Lexa, Lexa & Clarke _– instead of their ages.

 

Lexa died nine days later. Clarke didn’t think she’d ever cried so hard before.

 

At her funeral, Clarke stood next to Lexa’s casket alone for a few moments before Costia came over to stand next to her.

“I was planning to have Lexi buried in this, but I thought you might want it.”

Clarke looked up to see Costia holding up the necklace she had slipped into Lexa’s bags all those years ago. The silver chain looked well-worn and the L had lost its shine, likely from Lexa absently reaching up to rub it between her thumb and forefinger. Clarke noted the small blue jewel had fallen out at some point.

“I couldn’t take it back,” she said dully, realizing her mistake but not caring. “It’s Lexa’s.”

Costia smiled sadly. “That’s what I thought. Why don’t you put it on her; I’ve already said my goodbyes.”

“Thank you, Costia.”

“Of course,” she paused and smiled as though they were sharing a private joke. “Chey.”

 

Her life was relatively usual for a few years after that. She went back to Yale and studied, made some drinking friends, and tried not to cry every time she thought about Lexa. Sometimes she thought about picking up the phone and calling Costia, telling her everything, but she ultimately decided it would be too dangerous. Her secret would die with Lexa. And, well, Murphy.

She was standing in the bank when it happened. Three gunshots toward the ceiling. She followed instructions, _Everyone down on the ground,_ and stayed there while the three men alternated taking money and yelling at them to shut up. Clarke peeked up slightly and spotted a young brunette woman next to her, and somehow Clarke knew that a skill she had learned eons ago would be useful.

_You sign?_ She signed small, begging that she wouldn’t draw the attention of the man currently yelling at a wailing toddler.

_Yes,_ the woman signed back. _You know fight?_

Clarke thanked god that she had decided to become a black belt back in 2002, and nodded. Together, she and the other woman took down the man who had yelled at the toddler and got his gun. The other two didn’t notice.

“Hey assholes,” the woman said, and the two men turned around, raising their guns. The woman shot them both clear in the balls, causing them to drop their weapons, and two beefy college students grabbed the pistols.

Two criminals left with injured balls and egos, the other with only a concussion.

“What’s your name?” Clarke asked breathlessly.

“I’m Robyn,” the woman said after a moment of hesitation. “And you are?”

“Camille,” Clarke responded. They shook hands.

 

She and Robyn, it turned out, were awesome friends. They moved in together just two months after the bank thing. They didn’t really pry into each other’s pasts, and neither were really interested in doing much more on a Friday night than drinking wine and watching crappy TV.

They lived together for three years before Clarke started to get suspicious.

The signs were there, and Robyn was sort of sloppy. There was a picture in Robyn’s room; she was sitting with a blonde man, smiling. But she was in front of a statue Clarke recognized from the campus of the University of Washington. A husky right in front of the stadium. But she also knew that a new statue had been commissioned in 2064, because she (as Cade) had helped design it. The year then was 2086, there was no way for Robyn to be sitting in front of the old statue.

One time, Robyn’s phone rang and she had it on speakerphone while she tinkered with the scrap parts that were always in the living room. Clarke came home and just heard someone say “Raven-,” from the other end before she saw her and yelled “HI, CAMILLE!” After that, the person on the other side of the phone hung up pretty fast.

Clarke also found a pretty impressive collection of passports hidden in a panel in the floor. She hadn’t been actively searching for them, but had noticed a little break in their carpet.

The earliest passport was for a Raven Reyes, 18 in 2017. Then there were a few others. Raven, Aya, Sparrow, and Robyn.

Clarke went to her own room and dug out her safe, getting out her many more passports. She put them on the coffee table next to Robyn’s, or, she supposed, Raven’s.

“Camille,” Robyn called when she came through the door ten minutes later. “I got Chinese food from the place that just opened up but I also heard someone in the bathroom and it sounded like they were throwing up so maybe we should start with the rice and wait before…” she trailed off, spotting all the passports on the coffee table. “What are you doing?”

“Did you know,” Clarke said, “That there’s a little hidden compartment under the carpet in the hallway?”

Robyn’s eyes widened. “Camille…I can explain-,”

Clarke laughed. “You’re kind of sloppy. I kept my old ones in a safe in my room. Locked.”

Robyn approached the table, eyebrows furrowed. She tentatively reached down and ran her fingers across Clarke’s many passports, picking one at random.

“Cristina Henley,” she read. She picked up another. “Celeste Argo,” and a third, “Carla McDonald.” Her eyes shot to Clarke’s. “Please explain.”

“Do I need to?” Clarke asked. She picked up the earliest passport. “So, is it Raven? Raven Reyes?”

Robyn nodded slowly and put her hand out. “Yes, it is. And what is your preferred name?”

“Clarke Griffin,” Clarke replied. She walked over to the kitchen and pulled out two wineglasses and a bottle she had been toting around for lifetimes. “Now, I believe you said something about sketchy Chinese food?”

 

“Three of us,” she gushed into her phone. “Can you believe it, John?”

“Um,” Raven said sheepishly, “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. Four.”

Clarke looked up at her in surprise. “Four? There’s another?”

“Yes,” Raven pulled out her laptop. “Let me see if I can get him over videochat.”

_“Not Holo-Communication?”_ Murphy asked over the phone.

Raven wrinkled her nose. “No, I sort of hate new age technology that I didn’t help design.”

_“I like her,”_ Murphy declared.

“Well, Lincoln’s not answering, I’ll call him tomorrow. You need to hear his story from him. He’s like…really old, I think. He definitely fought in the Trojan War.”

_“One might say he’s…”_

“John, do not,” Clarke warned.

_“Ancient. I’m sorry, Clarke, it was right there please don’t-,”_

She hung up the phone and turned to Raven. “I just can’t believe there’s another one of us. Imagine how many could be just…wandering the world! How would we know, we’re all so good at hiding.” She paused. “Or, well, you’re not.”

Raven pouted. “Well, the floor panel has worked with all my other roommates.”

 

World War III had broken out in 2109, and as the death counts rose, people were drafted. Raven was working in an aerospace facility in New Mexico until it had been bombed, lodging shrapnel in her spine and giving her a permanent limp. _We may be immortal,_ she had written in her letter to Clarke, _but it seems we are not invincible. That’s not to sound ungrateful, of course. Doctors said I should have died in surgery._ Even though Clarke hated what had happened to Raven, she was glad the other girl was home and safe.

She herself was working as a medical nurse in the former Haiti, where a good portion of lives were being lost. She saw awful things on the battlefield, terrible, horrible things. Radiation was a new tactic, and she hated to see people in pain.

The first she killed was Atom. His name was the only she could bear to learn.

On one of her last days, a large man came in, moaning with pain from radiation burns. She took one look at him and thrust her head toward what the younger nurses called the Mercy Tent.

One of the youngest nurses was helping to carry the gurney. “His name is Washington Louis,” she said. Clarke supposed no one had told her what happened in the Mercy Tent. She turned to get a knife, ready to end the man’s pain, when the moans stopped. She turned, wondering if Mr. Lewis was already dead. It had happened before.

Instead, she turned to find a healthy, strong man sitting up in the bed. He looked at her, a bit of panic in his eyes. “I can explain,” he said.

“How old are you,” she replied.

That’s how she met her fourth immortal, Raven’s friend Lincoln. Their tours ended soon after that, when her medical section was irradiated. Most people died, and for the second time in her life, doctors told her it was a miracle she’d lived. She smiled ironically at them, but they didn’t get the joke.

She moved back to New York and Raven waited for them both at the airport, actually crying when she saw them. They allowed Lincoln to move in with them, and spent the first few days exchanging stories. Turns out, he had been in Washington when she was married to Wells.

“I do remember,” he said, “Hearing about a suspiciously young forty-eight year old woman.”

“That was probably me,” Clarke said. “I froze at twenty-four.”

Lincoln pointed to himself. “Thirty-three. I was a soldier in the Trojan War, and woke up just before being buried alive. The healer was horrified.”

“Oh, I was on a train when a fire started,” Clarke replied, “And John drowned.”

“And I was electrocuted,” Raven rubbed her hand absently. “I was only twenty-five.”

“No pattern,” Lincoln mumbled, “Why isn’t there any rhyme or reason?”

 

She got a job as an archivist in the New York City library as something to do. With the computerization of most books and records, not a lot of people came to the library. Mostly she saw older people who had grown up with hardcover books and historians rambling off inaccurate facts. Bellamy Blake was one of those historians.

She could tell he had been in the war because of the telltale scars up and down his arms. He was holding a copy of History Update: 2058. He was muttering about Weeble and his chips. Clarke was shelving books nearby.

“Why haven’t they got these?” he said, half to her and half to himself. “What a genius idea. Just needed the kinks worked out.”

“It wasn’t a good idea,” she couldn’t stop herself from snapping, looking up from her shelving to glare at him. “Have you heard about the rumors about those things? The death serum and all that?”

He scoffed. “That’s the good part. Imagine if Hitler had one of these, or Al Capone. Instead of persecuting innocent Jews and Gypsies, he just could have been killed. It would have been over like that,” he snapped his fingers.

“But remember the nineties and two-thousands when the death penalty was being used? They killed hundreds of innocent men before new evidence was found, proving their innocence. Imagine if the government had the power to kill anyone they suspected of murder,”

They continued on like that for a few more minutes before Bellamy got a call and stormed out, but not before calling an all-too-cheerful “See you tomorrow, Princess!” at a seething Clarke Griffin.

It only occurred to her three days later (and three arguments later) that she didn’t know his name. She was planning to ask, but got pulled into a conversation about landfill burning before she could. It was another three days before she remembered.

“So,” he said after a less heated than usual argument, “What’s your name?”

And she knew, _oh, she knew,_ that the right answer was Calico Grote, her current alias, but what spilled out of her mouth was the truth. “Clarke Griffin.”

And he replied, “Bellamy Blake, pleased to meet you,” and reached out to shake her hand (a practice that had been largely eradicated a while back). And for a while, that was that. He knew her real name but he didn’t know the significance. Didn’t know the lie. She took to taking a break sitting next to him every day, talking about books and history.

She didn’t tell Lincoln and Raven, right now, Jefferson and Kiwi (apparently Lincoln and Raven had a running joke where he would take the name of a past president and she would take the name of a different species of bird) about her little slip-up with Bellamy. She knew what they would say, and that they would all probably just move, and she didn’t want to make them do that. Plus, she rather enjoyed Bellamy Blake.

One day, on her break, they were sitting in silence, just reading. She was reading _Anna Karenina,_ an old favorite of hers, and he was reading _Catcher in the Rye_ at her recommendation.

“Do you know why I’m in such strong support of the Weeble chip?” he asked out of the blue. She raised her head and shook it no, even though she suspected he wasn’t really looking for an answer. “Because of that part that tracks if someone is alive or dead. See, my sister, Octavia, is currently MIA someplace in the world. They have no idea whether she’s alive or dead.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke breathed, reaching out to grasp his arm.

“Yeah,” he bowed his head and studied the synthetic wood of the table. “She’s been missing since September. Two months now. I just keep hoping she’ll be home for the holidays.”

Clarke didn’t know what to say.

“Every time I get I call, I’m half hoping it will be news of Octavia, and half dreading the idea of it. No news is good news, right?” He smiled ruefully, and because Clarke didn’t know what else to do, she leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t the same friendly fondness she got from Wells, or the safety and puppy love from Finn, or the easy romance with Lexa. No, this was the passion and fire and bitterness of two people who had seen too much bad in the world and were each other’s safe place.

And because it was wartime and they were both emotional and she had learned Bellamy Blake was a fucking romantic, he said “Marry me,”

And she said, “Okay.” And then she said. “I love you.”

 

They had a good old fashioned courthouse wedding and as the official examined her birth certificate, Clarke thanked god she had gotten the forged paper from the best in the business (Murphy).

“Calico?” Bellamy whispered to her as they examined their papers and fetched the license.

“Long story,” she whispered back. “I’ll tell you soon enough.”

And she knew she should have been more nervous about telling this man her biggest secret, she wasn’t. She had only known Bellamy Blake for a month and a half, but she knew for certain she was making the right choice.

 

Raven and Lincoln weren’t so sure.

It was three days after the wedding, and they were helping her pack up her things to move into Bellamy’s apartment.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Raven asked again. “That you can trust him?”

“Yes,” Clarke said again. “I know it for certain.”

“Okay,” Lincoln set a box in the back of her car. “But remember to call us, okay? Let us know how you’re doing. And for god’s sake please come see us sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Raven latched onto her side in a rare gesture of affection. “We love you Clarkey,”

Lincoln handed her the photo album. “Your jewelry box is in the passenger seat.” Then he hugged her too.

She drove to Bellamy’s apartment, their apartment, mentally preparing herself for the conversation she was about to have. She unpacked with him first, accepting every hug and kiss with eagerness, until all the boxes had been unpacked and he walked into the apartment holding the photo album and the jewelry box.

“This is the last of it, Princess. Where do you want it?”

“Bring it over here,” she gestured him over and he sat next to her on their nice white couch. For a moment, she thought of coming home to find Lexa on their street-corner couch, surrounded by her items. “I want to show it to you.”

“Okay,” he set the things down gently, running his finger over the wood of the jewelry box. “This is beautiful, is it vintage?”

She smiled slightly, “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

She explained the train fire, and Wells, and Finn, and Lexa, and Murphy, and Monty Jasper Harper Miller Maya, Costia, Lincoln and Raven and everything else. He didn’t interrupt her, only listened with rapt attention as she gave brief descriptions of her lives.

Clarke, Caitlyn, Carla, Clare, Celeste, Cristina, Chelsea, Chey, Cora, Cali, Cade, Camille, Carrie, Calico, and the many others in between. She showed him all the passports and papers, Finn’s tennis bracelet and the C necklace from Monty. She showed him the photo album.

“So you’ve been alive for over 200 years?” he asked finally.

She nodded. “Raven says I’m a bit of a cougar.”

He laughed, then was quiet for a few moments. “That is… _amazing.”_

She smiled.

“Oh, and I got this for you,” he pulled out a little velvet box and opened it. “It was my grandmother’s ring.”

She put on the beautiful gold ring and never intended to take it off.

 

They were decorating their Christmas tree with Lincoln and Raven (okay, Clarke was the only one really decorating. Bellamy was asking Lincoln about the early days of democracy while Raven drunkenly sung songs from the 1990s between sips of expensive old wine from Clarke’s collection) when Bellamy’s phone rang.

“Hello?” He said, “Yes, this is Bellamy Blake. May I ask whom I am speaking to?” He paused for a while. “Really?” Another pause. Lincoln, Raven, and Clarke had all stopped to look at him curiously. “What hospital?...I’m on my way.” He hung up the phone and leaned his head back on the couch. Clarke saw a single tear come out. The only other time she’s seen him cry was-

“They found my sister,” he said. “Octavia is alive.”

 

Most of what happened during Octavia’s absence was classified, but from what they were allowed to know, it was clear she was on an elite secret mission, and the mission was accomplished, but this mission would have been Octavia’s last.

Bellamy burst into the hospital room, with Clarke walking in behind him. Sitting up in the bed was a young woman, probably 23, with a white gauze blindfold over her eyes. Bellamy immediately wrapped his arms around her, and even without sight, Octavia hugged him back fiercely.

“Hi, big brother,” she said fondly. “Did you miss me?”

He laughed. “You know I did, O. They told me you were MIA!”

“I was,” she said sheepishly. “Sorry to have made you worry.”

The siblings hugged again, and Clarke sighed happily in the doorway.

“Who’s that, Bell?” Octavia mumbled into her brother’s shoulder.

“That’s my wife,” he said, still not letting go of his sister. “Clarke.”

She pulled back and hit him lightly on the shoulder. “Your _wife?_ Bell, we’ve only been out of contact for two months. You couldn’t have waited for me to come back? Clarke, get over here.”

Clarke obeyed and allowed the younger Blake to pull her into a hug. She was stronger than she looked. “It’s lovely to meet you,” Clarke said, wrapping her arms around Octavia. “Bellamy simply adores you.”

 

Octavia Blake was able to come home with them the very next day, holding a cane in one hand and sporting a pair of designer sunglasses. When they got back to the Blake apartment, Raven took one look at her and said, “I like her.”

Lincoln didn’t say anything, and Clarke smirked at him. He glowered back, but got a glazed over look when he broke eye contact with her and looked at Octavia. Within 30 minutes, Clarke had herded Lincoln over to the couch, and had Octavia sitting next to him. For the first time possibly ever, Lincoln was blushing. Bellamy was glowering. Clarke elbowed him in the side.

“Come on,” she whispered. “They’re cute.”

His frown became deeper. “He’s too old for her.”

She laughed and leaned in to kiss him. “I’m too old for _you_.” She said.

“Clarke,” Octavia called. Clarke gave Bellamy’s hand a squeeze and obediently went to sit next to Octavia.

“What’s up?” She asked.

“You’re an artist, right?” Clarke nodded, and immediately felt stupid for nodding to a blind girl, but Octavia continued on. “Describe yourself and Lincoln and Raven to me.”

Clarke let Octavia trace her face as she talked about how she looked. Lincoln let her do the same while Clarke told him about his face. Also Raven, but Raven made a game of it by trying to lick Octavia’s hand while the other girl giggled.

“Thank you, Clarke,” the girl said, flushed and happy, when they finished. “Now you’d better go back to my stupid brother. He’s probably having separation anxiety.” She turned to Lincoln before Clarke was even out of her seat. “So, based on Clarke’s description, you’re pretty hot, right?”

 

Bellamy grumbled as he watched his sister say ‘I do’ the following April. “For people with literally _all the time in the world,_ you immortals sure move fast.”

“Oh, hush,” she said. “When you’ve been alive for so long, time goes by in the blink of an eye.”

 

They lived together happily, still tense and waiting for the other shoe to drop with the war, but happily. For the time being, the world was in an uneasy peace. They celebrated her 220th birthday with their small group of friends.

“Clarke,” Bellamy said, flopped next to her on their couch, running his fingers through her hair. “Have you ever thought of kids?”

Clarke frowned and sat up, turning to look at Bellamy. “Not for a long time,” she replied truthfully. “Wells and I – my first husband – tried so hard, but it never happened. Finn and I never used protection. None of the other random men…I don’t know. I never really considered it to be a possibility. I figured my uterus was frozen with the rest of me.”

“Oh,” Bellamy didn’t sound disappointed, he sounded like he expected this. “When I was a kid, I always wanted a daughter. I figured I would name her Julia.”

“What if you had a son?” She couldn’t help but ask. He paused for a few moments.

“Is Augustus too weird?”

“You’re such a fucking nerd.”

 

“Do you think I can get pregnant?” she asked Raven the next day. Raven thought it over for a few minutes.

“I have no idea. Maybe through a surrogate or something? I don’t think your uterus is capable of sustaining a fetus.”

“I didn’t think so either,” she said, “But Bellamy was asking about it. I never really wanted kids before because…you know…” she gestured toward herself. “But I wouldn’t mind one with Bellamy.”

Raven shrugged. “You could always adopt. There are still plenty of kids running around without good parents.”

She researched adoption that day, and brought it up with Bellamy the next day. He smiled so widely his lips bled.

 

One year later, just a month after drunkenly celebrating her 221st birthday, they brought home baby Julia. Julia Jacob Blake.

The adoption was sudden, but they had talked about it a lot and were on the list. They just didn’t think they could get a baby so fast.

From what they understood, Julia’s biological parents had easily signed her away and would never have any legal jurisdiction over her. Bellamy and Clarke weren’t supposed to be next in line for a baby, but the social worker they’d been paired with, Lovejoy, said he’d seen the baby and known she was theirs.

They rushed to the hospital and Lovejoy placed the baby in Bellamy’s arms and that was that. The papers were signed and they had a baby.

Their friends loved to come over and coo about baby Julia. Raven somehow found little stuffed versions of machine parts and would hold them up to Julia. “Wrench,” she’d tell the baby, handing the part to her so she could hold it in a chubby fist and flail her arms.

Lincoln and Octavia always come over and held the baby for hours, allowing Bellamy and Clarke to get some sleep or go out for dinner. The first time sleeping baby Julia had been placed in Octavia’s arms, she had traced her face and teared up. “Oh, Bell,” she breathed, “I can already tell she’s going to grow up and be gorgeous. It’s almost like she has Blake genes.”

They adopted Auggie a year later. He was neglected by his parents, and didn’t even know his own name at two years old. They shifted his old first name, Lennon, to his middle name. Augustus Lennon Blake.

The kids grew up with the war, and Bellamy and Clarke spent years waiting for the other shoe to drop. World tensions continued to rise until they plateaued in 2119, when the R-Bombs began to drop. Radiation bombs.

Panic spread quickly, and Clarke and Bellamy spent all the time they could with six-year-old Julia and eight-year-old Auggie. Radiation poisoning was just beginning to affect Auggie when Clarke realized what she would do.

It was Raven who told her about the ship that was going up. “They offered me a spot,” she said, “But I rejected it. But from what I heard, those spots can be bought…”

The very next day, she sobbed as she held Julia and Auggie in her arms for the last time. Bellamy stood next to them.

“Go say goodbye to Raven and Lincoln,” she whispered to her kids. They ran off and she turned to Bellamy and held herself to his chest.

“Come with us,” he whispered, “Please, Clarke.”

“You know I can’t,” she whispered back, reaching up to kiss him. “I want you and Auggie and Julia safe. You’ll have Octavia, too. I’ll be fine.”

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” she replied.

 

She watched the American Airship launch, taking with it her husband and children. Lincoln squeezed her hand, and in turn she squeezed Raven’s.

 

Exactly 46 hours later, they sat on top of a skyscraper and watched the bombs that would wipe out the world fall.

“Do you think,” Raven mumbled, “That we can die?”

“I hope so,” Murphy said, and Clarke watched him clench a picture a little tighter in his hands. _Emori._

Clarke twisted her wedding ring around her finger. “I don’t know, Rae. But I think we’re about to find out.”

A flash, and then 

**Author's Note:**

> Fin.
> 
> Thanks for staying with me through this monster! I was thinking of doing some outtakes, so let me know if you liked it.


End file.
